Savage Divinity

There were no victorious cheers or defiant roars to be heard as the Defiled fled the battlefield, only a sudden silence that rushed to fill the void left in their wake, one so complete and abrupt Jorani almost thought he’d gone deaf without warning.

Truth be told, he was still reeling from his near death experience and unable to come to grips with the rapid recovery which followed, a topsy turvy dash through a series of trials and tribulations he still didn’t entirely understand. One moment, he was almost shitting his breeches from challenging Emissary Gen to single combat, and the next thing he knew, he was deep in the throes of Insight and pummelling the bastard’s hateful face in an attempt to permanently wipe the smug sneer off of it. Then, burning agony consumed him as his world was lit aflame, the heat ripping the air right out of his lungs and leaving him a burn husk yearning for the sweet relief of death.

The Healing which followed wasn’t much better, for even blissful ignorance was denied him as his scorched nerves regrew and notified him of how fucked his body really was. Even now, long minutes after the fact, part of his mind still suspected his body was in cinders even though he stood hale and healthy as could be, and the painful and unpleasant reminders of what he just experienced would stay with him until his body had time to adjust. How long that might be, he could not say, but this was not the first time Jorani had dealt with phantom Healing pains, and it would likely not be the last, so he took a deep breath, embraced his suffering, and put it out of mind, for there was still soldiering to be done.

“Keep on carrying on,” the bossman’s voice whispered, and Jorani could only shake his head on the nonsensical, yet utterly on point message delivered unto him by the Heavens.

Pushing himself to his feet, he brushed off the burnt ashes of his clothes and shuffled towards Asmani and her people, while making a valiant, but futile effort to maintain his modesty. Putting his nakedness out of mind, he took in his surroundings during the slow walk over, ignoring how the cool breeze on his exposed skin set his tender nerves to screaming. Not an hour past, the Brotherhood’s monastery had been a tranquil haven of peace and stillness, a quiet retreat a world apart from the bustling city Jorani grew up in. The bandit hideouts he later resided in were only marginally less chaotic, and only at the best of times, as lax discipline and lawless tendencies oftentimes led to turbulent living arrangements. As for military encampments and fortifications, they were most certainly disciplined, but filled with soldiers and workers bustling about at every hour of every day, creating a backdrop of thumping boots, clinking armour, creaking wagons, and galloping hooves which never really went away.

Not so here in the monastery, where at times, Jorani could go whole hours without hearing a sound made by another living person, as the monks were always respectful of each other’s personal space. In the courtyard, anything was fair game, because the monks congregated there for the express purpose of socialization, but inside his room or out in the surrounding wilderness, Jorani was left largely to his own devices. One of his favourite things to do was to take a walk around the monastery, not so far as to lose sight of the walls, but not so close either so as to overhear snippets of conversation from the courtyard. Once off the beaten tracks, he had only the chirping birds and rustling leaves to keep him company, as well as the odd rodent or weasel scurrying about the underbrush every now and then. For all the stories of how dangerous the Arid Wastes were, the area around the monastery was much safer than the streets of Sanshu or the forests around it, which were filled with thieves, thugs, bandits, bears, wolves, and worse.

Now even the lively courtyard had fallen unnaturally silent in the wake of the Defiled retreat, the victorious monks shrouded in a cloud of gloom and despair. Their melancholy stemmed not just from the dead who lay around them, because even as they mourned for friend and foe alike, Jorani saw many a monk wearing a familiar, far-sighted expression, one that told him they were not seeing anything at all. Combat fatigue is what many Officers called it, a tame way of framing a broken mind and spirit, while the bandits Jorani ran with just called it battle shock, but regardless of what you wanted to call it, it was clear the monks were suffering. There was more to battle and bloodshed than just physical exertion, as anyone who’d experienced it could tell you. Killing a man, even a Defiled one, took something from you, and those who claimed different were liars or born butchers. In the heat of the moment, with your blood hot and heart pumping, you always paid the cost without thinking, but now that the threat was gone and the battle over, the monks were coming to terms with what they’d just done.

Even a street rat like Jorani had been horrified after his first kill, and he’d grown up knowing just how cheap life really was. How might it be for these monks who followed the Noble Eight-Fold Path? They went on and on about how life was suffering, but they still cherished life above all else, pledging themselves to do no harm in any way, even by hurtful speech or doing things that might possibly lead to future harm, like eating meat or crafting weapons. Admirable though their intentions might be, it meant they were ill-prepared to deal with the weight of the actions now that they’d been forced to take lives in battle, and he suspected the Brotherhood would not approve of the methods he used to deal with the post-battle jitters, namely drinking and whoring. As such, there was little Jorani could do to help them through their trials and tribulations, but they were probably much better equipped to deal with their suffering than he’d been when he killed his first man at the tender age of fifteen.

Oh Mother above, how Jorani had cried that night, unable to close his eyes without seeing that poor guard’s dying gaze, so full of hatred and sorrow mixed together as one. Killing Defiled was much easier as they were the aggressors, but these Chosen lacked the feral savagery and murderous depravity of their tribal brethren, which muddied the waters more than a bit.

Then again, Jorani wasn’t sure it’d be so easy killing regular Defiled anymore, not after spending these last few weeks getting to know Asmani and her ilk. They weren’t a bad lot, by and large, different and unusual, with a more casual outlook on murder and torture than most, but that was the way life moulded them. Once removed from the brutal and deadly regions of the unforgiving Northern Wastes, the tribesmen weren’t all that different from foreign Imperials, whose customs and traditions seemed every bit as strange to Jorani. Less in some ways, considering how the Bekkies liked to bathe in mixed groups, or how Central fops liked to paint their faces white. Then there was the madness that was Southern Warriors refusing to let women join the army in any capacity, which they all saw as normal, but was all sorts of peculiar to Jorani. Makeup was one thing, but who even thought a fully pastel white face was attractive? As for women not serving in the army, he could see an argument to be made to keep them out of the fighting, but even keeping a maid around to do laundry and tidy up was strictly forbidden, and he couldn’t begin to fathom why.

The vagrant tribesmen were all currently idling about, with improvised and not-so-improvised weapons in hand, though they had yet to use them. At Monk Happy’s directive, the tribesmen had not taken part in the battle, but Jorani wasn’t sure if it was because the Brotherhood didn’t want their future initiates to fall back into old habits or to spare them from dying in droves. It was clear at first glance that the Runic-armoured Chosen Elites were far stronger than the remnants of Asmani’s tribe. At least, he assumed as much since none of the tribesmen had managed to defeat him in single combat, but it was possible the stronger Warriors were merely giving Asmani face and allowing her the satisfaction of defeating him personally once she was no longer burdened by her pregnancy. Regardless of the reasons, the tribesmen were all well-rested and well-equipped to deal with the aftermath of battle, so after asking about what he’d missed, Jorani gestured for them to follow while relaying his orders through Asmani. “C’mon now,” he said, accepting a tunic taken off one of the younger Defiled, one meant to be worn with pants. While they stopped short just above his knees, at least it was long enough to cover his twig and berries, which would have to do for now. “Them bodies ain’t gonna burn themselves, so let’s get crackin’,” he said, swallowing the injury to his pride and offering the shirtless kid a nod in thanks while trying not to think about how he shared the same build and physique as a teen-aged Defiled. “Pick out a few to come gather kindling with me, while the rest of ye stack them bodies high.”

“Why must you burn the bodies?” Despite having yielded the title of Chieftain over to him, Jorani had long since learned that a Chieftain’s word was far from law, and that he had to explain every order he gave so long as someone cared enough to question it, which was why he stood in place while doling out orders instead of setting out post-haste. Frowning in pointed displeasure, Asmani crossed her thick arms over her protruding belly and said, “You soft southlanders live in a land of plenty, which has made you wasteful and foolish. No wonder you are all so weak.”

Trying and failing to keep the heat out of his tone, Jorani snapped, “We burn bodies to waste them.” Taking a second to calm his screaming nerves, he explained, “Food might’ve been scarce back where ye came from, but here and now, we have plenty to eat without havin’ to resort to cannibalism.”

“This word. Cannibalism? This means to eat flesh?”

Of course she didn’t know the word. “Human flesh, specifically. Err, rather humans eatin’ humans. Works for any animal eatin’ its own kind, I suppose.”

“I see.” Except she didn’t, since Asmani then asked, “And this cannibalism is wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

There was no scorn in her tone, only pure curiosity, like a child wondering why they shouldn’t say certain words, and Jorani wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. “Well it’s bad cuz... it’s just wrong. I mean, lookit this way. If ye died, ye wouldn’t want others eatin’ yer corpse, now would ye?”

“...Why would I not?” Looking down at Jorani as if he’d sprouted two extra heads, Asmani furrowed her brow in bemused ignorance. “I would take issue if my enemies were to consume my flesh, but such is their right as the victor. Were I to fall in battle only for my tribe to emerge victorious, then I would be heartened to share my strength with my surviving tribesmen. This is only right.”

“...Is that why ye eat yer enemies? Because ye think it makes ye strong?” Maybe the tribesmen were odder than he thought.

“Not because we think so, but because we know so. When my father and brother died, I took their strength and made it mine, and only then did I have the strength to avenge their deaths.” Mother in Heaven, Asmani said it all so matter of factly, Jorani could scarcely contain his horror. Tapping the centre of her chest, she continued without blinking, “I ate their hearts raw, but cold, and would be much stronger if I’d feasted sooner, for then I would have their Spirits here with me. Even without the benefit of added wisdom, all including the weakest tribesmen can benefit from the cold, dead flesh of a powerful foe. This is known, for such is the way of nature. The strong eat, the weak die.” Gesturing at the bodies laid out around her, Asmani added, “Our tribe would grow strong with these offerings, for these were Champions one and all.”

From the way she kept eyeing Jorani’s bared, skinny legs, he could tell she wanted to say he would benefit much from eating the corpses as well, not to mention her covetous glances towards the bodies of the fallen monks. Thankfully, even she wasn’t so tactless as to suggest eating them while the still living monks were grieving over their fallen comrades, and Jorani thanked the Heavens for small favours. “There will be no eating of the dead,” Jorani declared, too exhausted and irritable to be bothered with courtesy. “I don’t know why it’s wrong, but it is. People deserve some respect, even after they’re dead, so we won’t be eatin’ em and that’s that.” That was the end of that, mostly because he worried that he’d be tempted to give cannibalism a try if they kept talking about it. Asmani might well be right, seeing how the Defiled survived in the harsh frozen wastelands of the north, where the ground never thawed and vegetation was all but non-existent. How else to explain why the Defiled were able to grow so large and strapping in such meagre and lacking lands?

“No need for kindling either, Brother Jorani.” Appearing out of nowhere beside Jorani, Monk Happy made for a sorry sight, his chin and chest stained with dried blood and his eyes near closed with fatigue. Despite this, the monk managed something of a smile, albeit a ghastly, blood-stained smile that scared Jorani to the Core. “If you could merely lay the bodies side by side on the ground outside, this monk would be most grateful.”

Unlike Asmani, Jorani wasn’t interested in asking questions, so he set off to do as Monk Happy asked. Not just because he respected the formidable Warrior Monk, but also because Jorani could tell Monk Happy was not in the mood for idle chatter. It wasn’t easy, making the decision that he did, and while Jorani understood why Monk Happy gave up the bossman’s location, he still wasn’t all too pleased with the decision. Even knowing a clash between Divinities would have spelled certain death for everyone here, Jorani would rather die than cause the bossman any harm, but Monk Happy wasn’t wrong when he said the bossman wouldn’t want that. Now, all they could do was hope for the best, so Jorani set his mind to task and started hauling bodies outside the monastery, one cumbersome corpse at a time.

Despite all the chaos and confusion, there weren’t actually all that many bodies to clean up, especially considering how the monks wanted to look after their own. The next task was to dig a ditch, using long spades similar to the weapon Monk Happy wielded, though these ones were less ornamental. Why they needed the ditch, Jorani didn’t know, as there was no way the monks of the Brotherhood would ever just leave bodies to rot in the dirt. That just seemed... blasphemous, and Jorani was sure they had something else in mind, like having a recessed fire pit to keep the flames from spreading, but Monk Happy specifically said there’d be no need for tinder, so Jorani could only let his mind wander while ignoring the pain of his tormented and abused body.

It was like the old adage said, the reward for hard work was usually more work. The reason the casualties were so low was largely thanks to Monk Bones Healing friend and foe alike during his ascension to Divinity, but Jorani felt he deserved a little credit for drawing the battle out with his duel against Gen. Oh what a glorious fight that had been, and for a brief few seconds, he even thought he might win, seeing how he’d trapped the smug bastard with his Spiritual Rope and got to pounding on his hateful face, but alas, an Elemental Blessing was too much for Jorani to handle. He didn’t know the first thing about blocking pillars of flame or blades of wind, which wasn’t all that bad considering most Martial Warriors were in the same boat, but it still left a sour taste in his mouth knowing he could’ve won if not for that damned Blessing. Learning Lady Li Song shattered her Core coming to his rescue didn’t help matters any, and Jorani didn’t know how he could face Colonel General Akanai when he got back, but whatever punishment she gave him couldn’t be worse than the guilt he felt now.

Better if he’d died rather... nah, that wouldn’t have been better, but he still felt bad about Lady Li Song’s condition. She was a real Warrior, one with potential and pedigree, taught by Du Min Gyu and taken in by the Bekhai, so she would have gone far if not for this disastrous set-back, and Jorani could only pray she would eventually recover. At least Gen had turned Demon and no one would ever have to listen to his damned speeches anymore, assuming his Demonic form hadn’t inherited some form of Oration or whatever. Now that would be terrifying, a Demon capable of human speech, and doubly so if it spoke in the same smarmy tones Gen used. ‘This Sovereign’, pei. Dog farts is what that was, and Jorani was glad someone shut him up once and for all.

While Jorani was still digging away, a procession of monks arrived and began chanting in their customary baritone timbre. The words were different this time around, a chant Jorani had yet to hear, but it filled him with purpose and contentment, for now he knew he was doing what needed to be done. Though the general mood was still sombre and heavy, he felt the weight on his shoulders slowly lessening as he put spade to soil and dug to the rhythm of the drumming beat, the monks’ fish drums sounding in a slow and steady manner. The more he worked, the more he sweat, the better off he felt for it, shedding his woes and regrets like the loose dirt he piled to one side. The Energy of the Heavens churned about for long minutes around the monastery, but Jorani rode it out and kept digging away while the weight of the world slowly lifted off his shoulders. Despite the simple and easy work, he was soon heaving with exertion and dripping with sweat, having to stop often to lean heavily on his spade to pant and rest. Odd that, for there was nothing too strenuous about the task he was doing here, but after only a few minutes, he felt as if he’d sprinted from sunup to sundown.

There was some strange force at work here, something to do with the monks’ droning chants and how they soothed his frayed nerves and ragged spirits, uplifting him from the depths of despair to a more manageable melancholy. Then there was the odd phenomenon of whirling Heavenly Energy, as if someone were demonstrating their Purity nearby, but to a degree Jorani had never seen or felt before. A quick glance around showed him he wasn’t the only one affected so, as a good half of the tribesmen were in similar straits, their shoulders slumped and chests heaving from unseen exertion. Throughout it all, the monks’ droning chant continued, intensifying as the weight of the world lessened even further until suddenly and without warning, all the remaining pressure just disappeared. Heaving a sigh of relief and relaxation, Jorani straightened up and breathed deep as if tasting the air for the first time, and even the metallic scent of blood and death couldn’t bring his mood back down. The skies were clear, the sun was bright, and Jorani was still alive, and these three things alone were enough cause for celebration.

And when he caught his breath, he went right back to digging, because it just felt right.

“Love the new outfit and how it shows off your legs. Do they come in any other colour besides brown?”

So used to hearing the bossman’s voice in his head, it took Jorani a full second to realize things were different this time around. Beset by a tide of wry amusement, he turned and ran at the bossman to engulf him in a hug, happy to see him back on his feet and in his right mind again. “You’re back!” he exclaimed, so happy words failed him, until he remembered the plight they last left him in. “And alive!” Drawing back to get a better look at the bossman, he blurted, “You look like shit.”

With his loose, dishevelled hair and ragged, blood-stained clothes, this was Heaven’s own truth, but still better left unsaid. Luckily, the bossman had none of the airs or pretensions a man of his station should, and even more reassuring was the fact that he didn’t have any of his weapons close to hand, all strangely absent from his now conscious self. “I don’t normally hug pantsless men, but I can make an exception for you,” he replied, putting on an exaggerated, moon-eyed gaze. “How can anyone resist your silver-tongued compliments?”

Feeling the genuine amusement coming off of him in waves, Jorani felt emboldened enough to banter about. “Ah well, ye could’ve thrown on a clean shirt or something at the least.” Eyeing the various holes and tears in the bossman’s outfit, Jorani sucked in a deep breath and asked, “Hard fight?”

“Wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.” Except the bossman’s words didn’t match his Aura, which for some reason was laying his emotions bare for Jorani to parse through. Right now, the bossman was feeling relieved and amazed, unsure how he made it out alive and in one piece. A part of him was also annoyed, likely over having to fight, while yet another part of him was amused because he still had more tricks up his sleeve that he had yet to reveal. Rather than explain what happened in the Abbot’s abode, the bossman shrugged and said, “I survived, so there’s that.” A brief burst of pride accompanied the declaration, only to be quickly squashed and replaced by unyielding determination, already forgetting his accomplishments to focus on the next task at hand. “So I’ve been a little out of it lately. Fill me in on everything I missed.”

Borrowing a spade from a resting tribesman, the bossman started digging while Jorani went over recent events that the bossman should know about. None of it surprised him, as if he wasn’t hearing all this for the first time, and he took everything in stride until Jorani got to the battle proper. Upon hearing Jorani also missed out on seeing Monk Bones’ ascension, the bossman gave his first reaction since beginning the tale, which was to scuff the dirt and pout. When Jorani finally ran out of things to say, the bossman nodded and leaned on his spade to rest, his eyes distant, but focused, unlike the thousand-kilometre stare some monks still wore. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, his gaze returned to the task at hand, and despite standing in a ditch taller than he was, the bossman wore a wry grin pasted across his exhausted expression. “Sometimes, the most obvious answers are staring you right in the face,” he said, gesturing for a helping hand to pull him out of the ditch. Jorani was more than happy to oblige, but he almost screwed up and stumbled back when he pulled up the almost weightless bossman. Now that was some feat of Lightening, but he didn’t even seem to notice Jorani’s gaffe, his eyes fixed on the corpses laid out on the ground. “I didn’t even consider this until you mentioned how strange it was for the monks to bury bodies instead of burn them.”

“Nah, that ain’t it bossman.” Worried he’d arrived at the wrong conclusion, Jorani drew near and whispered, “The monks would never... ye know. They’re vegetarians fer Heaven’s sake. I know they play it fast and loose with some of the rules, but they’d never...” Eat corpses for the sake of strength.

“...Relax.” More wry amusement emanated off of the bossman, mingled with a hint of... jealousy? Why was he jealous? “No need to defend the Brotherhood so vehemently, I was thinking something entirely different.” Gesturing at the corpses, he said, “Burying them isn’t strange. Putting them into the ground is one way to return their bodies to nature. Worms, bugs, scavengers, and various other things will break down meat and bone which will then go on to nourish the earth, but none of that can happen when you burn all the bodies.” Chuckling as he shook his head in self-deprecating amusement, he added, “Honestly, I feel like an idiot for not seeing it sooner. We don’t burn bodies to deny the Defiled a source of strength. We do it because it lessens the chances of someone discovering that burying bodies of Martial Warriors can eventually give rise to Spiritual Plants. I mean, why wouldn’t it? Defiled and Martial Warriors alike use Heavenly Energy to nourish their bodies, so why wouldn’t our corpses become a source of usable Heavenly Energy? The Demons know it, the Defiled know it, animals know it, but the people of the outer provinces have been conditioned to overlook it.”

The bossman’s voice dropped down to a whisper as he shook his head some more and muttered something about turtle poop, but Jorani didn’t know how to respond at all. “So yer sayin’ if we bury these bodies, they’ll grow Spiritual Plants?”

“Possibly. Likely even.” Feeling a confidence his words and expression didn’t match, the bossman shrugged and met Jorani’s gaze. “But that’s not why I’m here. I came here because I need your help.”

“What with, bossman?”

“Later on, I intend to speak in front of all the monks here in the monastery, or as many as I can gather. Once I’ve said my piece, I want you to offer your thoughts on the matter, in public for all to hear.” Holding up a hand to forestall any argument, the bossman continued, “I’m not asking you to back me up without hearing me out first. I’m going to say my part, and when I’m done, I’d like you to give your honest opinion, whether you agree or not.”

“Sure, bossman. But uh, if ye don’t mind me askin’... why?”

“Because of the difference in our statuses.” Flashing a wry, half-smile, he explained, “See, you and I are both potential recruits, except the difference is they want to bring you into the fold, while they are looking for any excuse to reject me. You came here to visit and they got to know you, then they decided you would be a good fit.” Shrugging, the bossman continued, “Me, on the other hand, they were stuck with. The Abbot swooped in and said, ‘Falling Rain is one of us now, and a Wisdom to boot’, whatever that means. Even though they’re all monks, they’re still human, and that sort of thing rubs most people the wrong way. This means most of the monks are already inherently biased against me, whereas you, they might see differently.” Handing his spade back to the tribesman he borrowed it from, the bossman looked the towering man in the eyes, and to Jorani’s amazement, the tribesman averted his gaze, unable to even stand with back straight in the bossman’s presence.

There was something different about the bossman, but Jorani couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t just the emotional Aura rolling off him in droves, nor was it in the way he looked or behaved. There was just something about his presence that seemed... not heavier, not larger, but just... more substantial, as if he were more real than the other people standing around him. There was nothing specific Jorani could really point out, only that the bossman seemed more... more, without changing his height, width, weight, or any other physical measurement, if that made sense. It didn’t really, but Jorani had no other way to describe it, except as a reassuring moreness that made him that much more dependable. “Sure thing bossman,” Jorani said, understanding the man’s reservations. In his time here, Jorani had heard more than one monk point out some flaw or mistake the bossman made, and never in a good light. Only now did he realize why they’d done so, proving that even those who followed the Noble Eight-Fold Path were not above petty grievances.

Having secured Jorani’s agreement, the bossman didn’t seem too keen to get speaking, and instead retreated to one side where the Divine Turtle busied herself harassing a massive, hulking tiger, one that dwarfed even the largest horse, or would have if it wasn’t sitting there with a hangdog expression. Never before would Jorani have imagined seeing so majestic an animal in so much misery, its forlorn expression fixated on all the corpses laid out before it as it licked its lips in obvious hunger while ignoring the Divine Turtle rubbing her face in his flanks. Instead of allowing the beast to gorge itself on recently killed Defiled, the bossman offered the tiger a piece of dried fish, barely more than a nibble to the enormous creature, but one it accepted with pitiful reluctance. Were it a human, Jorani would say the tiger was having a tantrum over being forced to eat its greens, but the bossman had no mercy for the majestic predator. A good thing too, because when the tiger caught a glimpse of Jorani’s rat ears and tail, his eyes glimmered with interest as its tail set to lashing to and fro.

So this was Rakshasa, the Spiritual Tiger. Jorani was both awed by his majesty and terrified of his presence, but the bossman treated it like one of his wildcats and made strange hissing noises while feeding the tiger. Yet another pet to add to the menagerie, Jorani supposed, but for once, he hoped things would not work out for the bossman. Let the Brotherhood keep the tiger. The bossman’s quins, bears, and wildcats were fearsome enough.

Throughout it all, the monks continued their chants without interruption, right up until the ditches were dug, the bodies laid to rest inside, and the holes were all filled up again. Only then did their chants fall silent, coming to what felt like a natural end, and Jorani followed the crowd back into the monastery, with the tribesmen following along behind him. The fallen monks had already been laid to rest elsewhere, so the bossman made his way through the crowd to stand upon the raised dais, where he offered the crowd a Martial Salute and said, “Hello. I am Falling Rain, and I ask for a moment of your time so that we may speak.”’

Usually, Monk Happy would be the one to respond, but the portly monk appeared at the bossman’s side, his face washed and clothes changed as he firmly declared where he stood. Instead, urged on by his brothers, Monk Bones responded to the bossman’s request, but not before grumbling about it beneath his breath. “Ascend to Divinity and now they all want me speaking for them,” he muttered, his voice low and muted but still loud enough to echo in the silent courtyard. “If I’d known it’d be this bothersome, I’d have stayed in seclusion.” Clearing his throat while the bossman stifled his chuckles, Monk Bones sighed and replied, “Speak your piece, initiate.”

A bad start, as Monk Bones revealed himself to be a staunch opposer of the bossman’s appointment to wisdom, but he took it in stride. “No initiate here,” the bossman replied, before quickly adding, “Nor do I expect you to call me ‘Wisdom’. Falling Rain will do, or just Rain, or Legate if you feel the urge to be formal. Now that that’s out of the way, I must first offer my heartfelt condolences for your losses, and take full responsibility for what happened here.” Accompanying the bossman’s words was a startling wave of contrition, one which hit Jorani so hard his throat closed up with grief. These were the bossman’s true feelings, so at odds with his calm and almost dispassionate speech, an Aura that affected every person present differently. Some reeled back on their feet, while others broke out into tears, with quiet sniffles and choked sobs aplenty to fill the courtyard. Others clenched their fists and grit their teeth, while still others stood in complete shock and silence, unable to process the bossman’s grief overlaid atop their own.

Most telling of all was how the Defiled reacted, coming alert with hands and weapons at the ready to defend themselves, seeing this palpable grief as an attack and nothing more.

While all this took place, the bossman bowed before the crowd, his raw emotions pouring off him as he did. “The tragedy that befell your monastery is my fault, as the Enemy came here for me, and while there is nothing I can do to ease your grief or bring back those you lost, know that if the Brotherhood should ever need my assistance, they only need ask and I will do everything in my power to help you.”

No one spoke out to accept his apology or offer of restitution, but the bossman didn’t seem bothered by the silence at all. Instead, he seemed relieved to have gotten this matter off of his chest, his guilt assuaged ever so slightly by his good intentions. Closing his eyes, he stood on the dais and took a deep breath, before exhaling and opening his eyes again, his stable, neutral state of mind communicated clearly through his still pulsating Aura. “With that out of the way, I’m here to speak with you all regarding an important matter: the fate of existence as we all know it.”

“If you mean to convince us to become your soldiers, then this monk might as well save you some breath.” Shaking his head in dejected disapproval, Monk Bones sighed and continued, “Though we fought to defend ourselves, this was only an option of last resort. This monk has no desire to see more of his brothers give their lives for a cause they do not believe it.”

“If it’s soldiers I wanted, I’d have petitioned the Emperor for more Death Corps and Royal Guardians.” His sarcastic tone did him no favours, but the bossman was never one to give face. His amused Aura did much to blunt his mocking words however, as he seemed genuinely amused the Brotherhood thought he wanted them to fight. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d welcome any of you to fight by my side, but coming to a monastery full of pacifists in search of Warriors is just asking to be disappointed.”

“Then what part would you have us play in this matter of fate?” A different monk chimed in here, one Jorani didn’t recognize, but immediately named ‘Mole’ for obvious reasons. “One so dire you believe it affects all of existence.”

“No clue.” A hush fell over the crowd at the bossman’s forthright admission, only for the monks to break out into discontented muttering. Undeterred by their suspicions of mocking, the bossman shrugged a second time and said, “I have no idea how you can help, but the Abbot believed the Brotherhood could be of use, that your contributions could change things for the better, and while I can’t claim to know his mind, I do not think he intended for you to fight.”

The crowd fell silent as they digested the bossman’s words, the monks mulling over exactly what the Abbot might have sent them to do, but soon enough, it became clear none of them were willing to share their suspicions. Instead, they all looked to Monk Bones who glared back as good as he got, only to sigh and capitulate to the will of the majority. “If it is as you say and the Abbot never intended for the Brotherhood to join the fight, then why did he insist on inducting you into the Brotherhood sight unseen, as Wisdom no less?”

“Because he wanted me to challenge your understanding of the Noble Eight-Fold Path.” Smiling without looking at anyone in particular, the bossman explained, “I possess what you might call a... peculiar perspective, and the Abbot thought that by arguing against me, you and the other monks of the Brotherhood would be able to strengthen your own resolve, a grindstone with which to hone your conviction, if you will. I raise doubts, and you put them to rest, which is how the Abbot saw matters progressing, but I suppose he forgot to share that with... well, anyone.” Still smiling as he shook his head, he sighed and said, “What we’ve got here... is failure to communicate.”

Pausing as if he expected a response, the bossman allowed himself to get flustered for all of a moment, but he recovered soon enough. “Anyways, I don’t think the Abbot ever expected me to become a dyed-in-the-wool monk of the Brotherhood, and if I’m being honest, I have no desire to even try.” With a rakish grin that made him look five years younger than his already youthful features, the bossman exclaimed, “I just enjoy sinning too damn much.”

Seeing his attempt at humour fall flat yet again, the bossman grumbled something about a ‘tough crowd’ under his breath. Sighing, he gave it yet another try, and Jorani had to admire the man’s persistence. “Look,” the bossman began, addressing the entire crowd as a whole, “I don’t know what the Abbot had planned for you all. Maybe you have some inkling, but I’m guessing you don’t know for sure either. The only way to know however, is to ask him, and to do that, we need to wake him up. That’s why I’m here standing before you, instead of heading back home with all haste; because the Abbot is dying, and I believe I can save him, but I need your help.”

“How?” Another unfamiliar monk spoke up this time, and Jorani dubbed this one Squint, on account of how thin and slanted his one good eye was.

“No clue,” came the bossman’s response, which again infuriated the crowd before him, but while his ignorance was genuine, so too was his resolve to help, which could clearly be perceived through his Aura. “Or at least, nothing substantial. I have some theories, but nothing worth discussing just yet, so I’ll have to ask you to take me on faith.” Turning to Monk Happy, the bossman nodded, and out of nowhere, the Abbot appeared, laid out upon a stretcher carried by four formidable monks. The crowd gasped as they caught sight of their Abbot, so wizened and shrivelled he gave old Bones a good run for the name, and Jorani uttered a small prayer beneath his breath. “Or rather, I beseech you all to have faith in your Abbot.”

In the silence that followed, the bossman’s voice rang with crystalline clarity, as if he were speaking directly to Jorani and Jorani alone. “I only recently came to learn of the Abbot’s accomplishments in broad strokes, with so much glossed over in minimal detail, but even a cursory account left me awestruck and amazed. How long has he led the Brotherhood and how much has he sacrificed to bring you this far? Knowing the Brotherhood’s view on pride, I assume only a few of you know the answer to these questions, but even those who do not must know his efforts have not been insubstantial. Now, he believes he’s failed his mission, failed his Mentor and Senior Brother, and I suspect it is because he believes the Brotherhood has shifted towards the wrong direction.”

“And what, pray tell,” Monk Mole began, his namesake dark and throbbing as he clenched his teeth in restrained anger, “Is the correct direction you believe we should take?”

“I can’t answer that, because I don’t know the answer. If I knew the correct Path forward, then I would have long since taken it myself.” Meeting the furious monk’s gaze, the bossman continued, “However, in my opinion, you have all long since lost sight of the Noble Eight-Fold Path, and now forge your way onwards in pride and ignorance.”

Sucking in a deep breath, Jorani’s hand flickered towards his Spiritual Rope, but he stopped short of actually pulling it free. Say what you will about the bossman, but no one would argue if he claimed to have more courage than sense. What sort of man comes asking for help, only to insult those he seeks aid from? And what did he expect Jorani to say once all this was over? Maybe something along the lines of, “Sorry all, the bossman is a strange one, so go ahead an’ ignore everything he just said. He don’t mean nothing by it.”

Assuming Monk Bones didn’t just toss the bossman out on his ass. That was a possibility too. The old codger was pleasant enough, but he had a real mean streak sometimes, and Jorani had suffered from it more than once on the sparring grounds...

Stifling yet another sigh, Jorani hunkered in and waited to see how the bossman would pull himself out of this mess, because by the Mother in Heaven, it might actually take a full-blown miracle to get him out of this unscathed.

Chapter Meme